


Amatores de Vita

by rexthranduil



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Multi, WILL TAKE ME FOREVER, WIP, Will eventually become a modern one so, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/rexthranduil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of the aftermath of the Barricade. Marius and Cosette will never be in this damned fic (mainly because I just cba writing them).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue À Une Nouvelle Ère

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lullabelle_moon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lullabelle_moon/gifts).



> Authors Note: I had this idea a few days ago and, as a natural result of my inability to write coherently anymore, I essentially acted it out (no, I will not ever show you that) so I could write this. I doubt this will be a full comprehensive story, not like Les Mis is in reality, but I do hope that my pitiful attempt will at least reach the level of ‘semi-decent’. I apologise in advance for all that you will now read. Also, there are Latin and French words dotted about in this so uh… not sorry.  
> Title apparently means "Lovers of Life" but it's Google Translate and we all know how reliable that is.

The blood stains the cobbles, turning the mottled brown and grey rock to Cabernet red that steadily darkens as the sun continues in its journey through the azure sky. The sound of women mourning the fallen is low but audible to all who wander these battle-scared streets; soldiers clothed in navy blue and vermilion red alongside the muted shades of peat green, dirty cream and taupe brown adorning the commoners. None pay any attention to the bodies of the fallen rebels beyond laying them out in a respectful line out of the way of the soldiers tasked with collecting their own fallen comrades; none but the police inspector, the one whose decisions way heavily upon his heart. He is of little importance however as he places his well-earned medal upon the breast of the fallen child; too young to die but too willing to do so for the sake of lady justice. They are all the same in that respect. Mere children who did not last the night but fell with the dawning of the day.

 

There may well be some poetic words, some noble phrases that have long since passed into history, that can describe what occurs when those fallen children are taken, their bodies stolen away in the light of the day without a single living soul taking note of them, caring not for the heartache the mothers of the fallen will feel when they learn their child is gone both in life and death. It does not matter; all that matters is that they do not remain laid out in silence and sombre companionship beyond the point of no return. The police inspector has gone, vacated the area so as to not look upon the chaos, the destruction of hope and life he has wrought; a cowardly thing to do but, nonetheless, expected and advantageous. Such an individual would have been a dangerous audience. Best not waste the time that has been provided by such a comely absence of the one who seeks with a hunter’s gaze.

 

It is a little matter, nothing really worthy of note, to remove them and dash away to the sanctum in this wretched city; full of the damned, sickly and dying as well as the conceited, bourgeoisie fools who were strung ribbons and fashionable buckles. It is however, worthy of note, the transformation process of those who are to be instrumental in the future; though for reasons they have yet to truly ever understand.

 

A few drops of the ruby red is all that is required to wake them, to pull force their kindling souls and empowering passions, and a bountiful sacrifice of a dozen of Paris’ finest _sang_ is more than enough to give them more of a life than they had before. The rather amusing actions of these new-born’s is more than enough to bring force a particularly _alienos_ sensation; unusual, foreign after so long. Perhaps they were not the right ones to return to life afterall… However, it is pointless to wonder of who is more deserving of this gift or whether their rebirth was indeed good or bad; the necessity of responsibility dictates that such queries should wait until they have been seen to. However long that may take.

 

It is a simple task to remove the evidence of their hunger, now thankfully sated, and to place out freshly turned clothing for each of them – quite correct in their size and fittings due to an unerring attention to detail of course. Calming them enough to change from their bloodied apparel however… well that is not quite as simple.

 

“Qui êtes-vous?” Is, rather amusingly, the first query they level at me, originating from the most verbal of them; the young one who sobbed over his fallen comrade who was little more than a boy himself. " _Dites-moi bon sang!_ ”

 

“Calm yourself child. I am a friend to you.” I reply calmly, raising a thin arm in an attempt to placate their frightened state. It is not at all effective however, as I can clearly see in their gazes their fear at my pallor. Of course, these children have never seen one so pale as I; nor have I though to be quite honest. “I found you all left for dead and brought you here, to my home, in order to save you from the clutches of death.”

 

“The barricade…” The golden-haired one, the one who had so resoundingly stood his ground against the carrions of despair, whispers in the lull that my words bring. He sounds broken, as though the knowledge that he failed to bring Paris alive with his words has shattered his faith. The poor Cherie must know that his words were perfect; it was Paris that was not ready.

 

“It has all but been dismantled. Those who fell there that I did not reach in time are dead.” I explain solemnly. I do feel for them, for their obvious suffering, their knowledge that those who stood with them, who sang and danced, drank and lived with them, are no more. “You are the only ones I could save.”

 

“Why?”

 

A simple question that evokes a thousand responses from me, some they can hear, most they can’t. What to tell them? What can I say that they would believe? They do not know what they are yet, they do not know what they can do.

 

“Because I could.” I answer simply, turning away from them in an act that I know they will recognise as my decision to end with such discussion. “I have laid out clothing for each of you, if you would kindly dress yourselves and then find your way to my study; it is through this door and along the corridor. Not an insurmountable challenge I assure you.”

 

Without permitting them the chance to question me any further, I leave them to their silence, to their grieving, and I know, without an ounce of doubt in my still-beating heart, that they will follow me.

 

I am sat in my favoured armchair, beside the crackling fire, sipping some of my coveted tea – which I have been so thoughtful as to share with them – when they arrive, together. I place my cup down on the small table beside me and rise, smoothing out the creases in my dress as I do so. One must always look respectable when in company afterall.

 

“Please, seat yourselves.” I direct, waving an arm in the direction of the set of chairs I had a servant arrange before the sun set. “Tea?” I ask as I observe that they do not move.

 

“No.” The golden-haired one replies sharply. Quite rude but to be expected I suppose.

 

I sigh, I had so wished to have finished my tea before I was required to answer their queries but, alas, it seems that is not to be. Well, if I must answer them, then I may as well pre-empt their numerous questions.

 

“You are in my home, still in Paris.” I begin, not concerning myself with how they start suddenly at the brusqueness of my words. “It is June 3rd and you all died yesterday on the barricade. I decided to return to you the life which had been so forcefully removed, and so gave you the kiss of eternal life hence why your senses are so vastly superior to what you recall them to have been.”

 

I wait, silently observing each of them as the weight of my words registers in their minds. Interestingly it is the one that has been paid the least attention to by the others who realises what my words mean first.

 

“Vampire.” His voice is low and smooth, though I can hear the roughness of death still clinging to it. “You’ve made us into vampires.”

 

There is silence following his verbal realisation, as his compatriots recognise the truth of his statement. I could speak up now, explain to them that yes, I did turn them, but no, they did not need to remain living in this state but… I cannot bring myself to offer such an option to them. Not when I see the passion, the fire that burns within them. Individually they are like candles in the dark, together they are a flaming star, blazing down into the darkness and igniting change.

 

“Why?” He asks in the silence that none of the others seem willing to shatter. “Why did you do this?”

 

His words are raw, emotive, and powerful in their desperation. So much so that even I, with all my years, cannot resist the pull of his voice.

 

“Because I saw in you all that which I have not seen for centuries.” I answer, my attempts to be cryptic are, quite obviously, not as effective as I again feel the pull of his voice to clarify my statement. “I saw in you all a light that I thought extinguished when Rome burned, when Athens fell and the barbarians ruined her. I saw that light in each of you and I could not bear the knowledge that, had I let you die permanently, I would never see it again.”

 

I turn away from them, turn from their gazes full of shock and surprise as my declaration, and reach for my tea. A sip calms me enough to continue with my words.

 

“I have lived longer than France has existed. I have seen civilisations rise and I have seen them fall. I have known war, famine, death and pain. But I have also known joy, peace, happiness and contentment. All through my life I have been alone, never daring to reach out and bring another into my world. Until I saw you all, standing so unerringly against certain death – for you all knew it awaited you – and I could not bear the thought that I should let you die, let you be consigned to the pages of history, when I could save you and let your passion live on; even in the shadows where I reside.

 

“I was selfish, ignorant of the world, of mortals and all their traditions. I have stolen from you all a permanent, noble death. I have fled from your families the right to bury you with honour and respect, with pain and grief. They will never have the closure one experiences when their loved one is consigned to mother earth. And yet, I cannot find it within myself to regret what I have done.”

 

I turn and look at them, my gaze penetrating each of their bodies to observe their souls.

 

“And I can see that you do not regret it either.”

 

The one who spoke without hesitation, who forced from me the truth of my actions, steps forward and reaches a hand towards me. I should not permit him to touch me, not when his voice alone compels me – even though I am so much older and stronger than he will ever be – but it has been years since I have allowed another to touch me in any respect; no man has ever touched me romantically, though many have attempted to in a sexual sense – but they found their lives significantly shortened for such audacity. Even though I fear the power he could have over me should he touch me, I allow it anyway. I allow him to place a gentle hand on my shoulder, a bid to comfort me I know but I cannot resist the urge to flinch. His hand drops from me as though I had burned him – which is a possibility I must admit.

 

“I.” I flounder for the words to say, what words could I use to explain my aversion to touch? What words in this foreign tongue that I speak as fluently as they do, exists that may define my behaviour?

 

“Do not explain why you shy from touch.” He says suddenly, his words quiet but heavy with knowledge; knowledge of my suffering and I recognise why he has such an influence on me. We are not too dissimilar in our fundamental nature. A cynic is raised not born, but a _somniator_ , a dreamer, is born. A kindred soul I have found after centuries of solitude. “I understand it well enough.”

 

“Grantaire.” The golden-haired one, whose name I am certain I know but alas it escapes me, says suddenly. It dispels the moment of fleeting understanding I experience between myself and this Grantaire.

 

“I trust her.” Grantaire responds readily, stepping away from me, and I realise that he had intended to learn of my intentions with his friendly gesture. Apparently I have not observed as readily as I should have, few have ever read me so well in such a fleeting touch. “She’s telling the truth Enjolras.”

 

There is a moment of tense silence between Grantaire and Enjolras, long enough that even I who does not know them well can recognise the silent battle occurring between them. It is a battle that Grantaire wins as Enjolras nods sharply and turns his attention to me.

 

“If we are to trust you then, first, tell us, what is your name?”

 

It is the beginning of a brighter future that much I can see, as I smile warmly and begin answering their questions with neither restraint nor consideration for how mad I may appear with some of my responses.

 

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

 

Throughout their lives, I must admit, they have always excelled at inciting others to rise up and change their lives for the better. Even when they have found themselves tired and worn by the seemingly endless stream of injustices visited upon humanity by itself, they have battled on against ignorance, prejudice, hatred, greed and indifference to bring about the betterment of mankind. I have not taught them this, they have done this of their own volition, without the need to be encouraged by myself, and it is why I love them so dearly.

 

They found within my life, a place for themselves, carved a place for their being with words and actions that allowed them to burrow into my heart so deeply I dare not displace them. Not that I would ever wish to for they give me meaning when I had none, hope when mine had gone out, and passion that I had believed I’d lost over the long, dark centuries of my existential solitude. They give my life meaning again and I provide them a place of refuge when the world becomes too painful for them to reside within.

 

I have waved them off over a dozen times since that fateful night in 1832, and each time they always return. I have no doubt that we will remain connected until the world burns or humanity dies out – though which is more likely to occur is for you to decide. Grantaire and Enjolras have come together, adding their strengths and whittling away their weaknesses until they fashioned themselves into a frightful weapon of righteous passion and cynicism; though how they have done it is, quite simply, beyond me. Jehan and Courfeyrac have bonded, joining and separating often but always remaining true to one another that I need not worry when I see them not for decades at a time. Joly and Bousset, rather amusingly, found themselves a sweet French girl – possibly from their own living lives I am unsure – who bonded with them so fiercely I could not bring myself to refuse to their wish to turn her. She is good for them however, strong and dependable, and she does not expect me to alter my ways just as I do not expect her to alter her own – a rarity I must confess for how I act has often caused tension. Eponine and Combeferre… well, they had been unexpected. I had honestly believed Eponine would have remained alone, pining over the living boy who loved her childhood companion. And Combeferre I did not realise, cared for much beyond his quest for knowledge and righteous friendship. They had been a pleasant surprise; one I am happy to say has never resulted in any heartache; though, arguably, that is a dangerous thing for it would imply they had never faced any challenges. But they are near enough two hundred years old so I think it is quite safe to assume they will be together for a while yet. I am rarely wrong.

 

Each of them come to me when they wish, for I am their mother, the one who gave them a second life to live where they can change and frolic without recompense. I act as guide and guardian, mother and sister when required, lover when I allow it – though never beyond kisses for it is not my nature and I am bound by my living vocation to Artemis. They are precious to me in a way little else is and I finally understand why my own mother valued my brother so dearly – it was natural back when I lived a mortal life for women to be nothing more than another form of stock but my brother treated me kindly in comparison to others. These boys, and dear Eponine and Musichetta, matter to me so much that I should think I may well die should I lose them to the cruelties of the world.

 

I nearly did once and it tore me apart with a ferocity I had never expected to experience I must admit. It was long ago, early in their immortal lives…


	2. Unus Ex Multis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the events that brought about the near-death of Grantaire and cemented the bonds of friendship (and other things) between them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't even the full chapter. My brain's exploded and I literally can't write anymore for this chapter so I've had to split it... jfc.

**Rome, 1849:**

 

“Do what you will my dears but **do not** expect me to protect you should the religious folk come upon you.” I comment dryly as I observe Courfeyrac and Jehan, the silly little children, attempt to scale the wall surrounding the Papal State though you would know it as Vatican City.

“Fools.” I mutter quietly. “They will be the death of me I am sure.”

“More like of the lot of us.” Grantaire snorts as he leans against the wall I have taken residence against. He is wearing his usual apparel, having decided that he much preferred the French style of clothing to that of his Italian counterparts – I must confess, I too preferred the French style, though nothing can compare to the flowing dresses of my dear Athens. The sleeves of his shirt have been rolled up to just beneath the elbow and his cravat is lopsided as usual. He looks no different to how he did whilst living, bar the fact that he never requires a shave courtesy of the hunter’s beauty immortality blesses us with.

I smile softly as he turns his head slightly and catches my gaze. He is a gentle soul, truly gentle, and kind even when he wishes he were not. It is appealing to me that he is so considerate of others – more so than before since drinking holds no appeal to an immortal who cannot become drunk on mortal spirits. He provides me with a gentle smile that warms my heart in such a strange and foreign way that I find myself looking away. Temptation is a dangerous thing for such a devoted being as I.

“Courf! Stop that!” Enjolras barks out suddenly, his voice cutting across the empty court-yard. It is midday and few dare venture out into Rome when the sun is beating down upon the cobbles with unfaltering intensity. It does not affect us however for hot and cold is arbitrary to us; the sun does not burn us as the tales of vampires suggests, the worse it provides is a severe case of sunburn if one is of a significantly pale complexion. Grantaire and I are often the victims of such sunburn, much to the amusement of the others.

“You’re going to get us arrested.” Combeferre states solemnly as he stares at the slightly embarrassed forms of Courfeyrac and Jehan – partners in childish crime that they are. “We need to keep moving, _not_ draw attention to ourselves.”

“Sorry Combeferre.” Courfeyrac grins in amusement and shrugs lightly. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“You may wish to _attempt_ restraint Courfeyrac. The guards of the Papacy are quite competent; moreso than you would expect of mortals.” I reprimand lightly as I step away from the wall and make my way over to the reborn revolutionaries. “I myself have received quite significant injuries from them in the past. They are not to be taken lightly.”

Enjolras raises a questioning eyebrow at me, obviously expecting an elaboration of my statement, but he does not have the power Grantaire does and so I provide him with a slightly smile – one that signifies that it is a discussion best left till another time – and move past him.

“We have little time to dally reminiscing of my rather maddening past. We must be in and out of the Papacy before the guards realise they have been tricked.”

It is enough to remind them of the seriousness of the situation and with practised dexterity I leap atop of the papacy’s wall with little more than a slight flexing of my legs. It will take them at least a century to develop a similar strength and so, until then, they are resigned to scaling the wall and utilising the length of rope wrapped around my waist. It does not take them long to reach the top, though I was sorely tempted to leave Courfeyrac to scramble up the wall unaided.

“Time?” Enjolras asks, readily expecting a response from Combeferre but, rather amusingly, Grantaire is faster at calculating the time.

“Seventeen minutes.” He responds, his voice low and smooth – the sound of death that had clung to it has long-since faded and it makes him sound young and alive. “It will take roughly eight to get to the balcony if Bousset and Joly have successfully distracted the guards.”

Enjolras, to his credit, does not question Grantaire’s approximations but rather readies himself for the jump from the wall to the street below. I have little time for such preparations and so I simply take a step off the wall and topple down, rather gracefully I will admit, and land lightly on the balls of my feet. Styled slippers are beautiful things. Jehan and Combeferre follow after Enjolras with Grantaire and Courfeyrac last.

In silence we streak through the streets of the Papal state – though I have to consciously pace myself, age is not always an advantage I will admit – until we reach one of the many walls of the Sistine Chapel. A beautiful building with architecture and fresco’s rarely seen in the world, I had forced Grantaire to accompany me not long after we reached Rome in order to revitalise his artistic flare; it worked thankfully and now his paintings are a constant source of income for them all. Dying did not help their finances and even I cannot provide for them all with only the gold I have to my name.

It takes Enjolras but a moment to realise he can scale this wall without assistance and so we wait in silence as he scurries up the carefully sculpted columns and onto the balcony. I have been in the Pope’s office before, long before Italy existed, and I must confess I am curious as to how it looks in this century. However, it mattered little as Enjolras had completed his task and leapt off the balcony to the ground before us.

It is ignorance that led me to ignore the sensation of being observed, of being hunted, that caused me such pain, such agony and released the truly terrifying fury of, not only myself, but of those I had come to care for. It is a sensation I have come to always readily identify and respond to accordingly should I ever experience it again.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

“It’s amazing how fast you all got in and out you know?” Joly exclaims as he sits down lightly on the supple divan he had personally designed to accommodate his needs; mainly the ability to sit with both Musichetta and Bousset without difficult.

“Hardly. We’re professionals.” Courfeyrac laughs as he leans back against his poet’s strong chest and pulls his arms around him. “Didn’t even take us that long.”

“It would have took _less time_ had you not been attempting to climb the wall without assistance.” Enjolras snarks as he sits in the hard-back desk chair. “You should take this more seriously.”

“I do. But we had to wait for our Cherie to move anyway.” Courfeyrac defends as he nods his head in my direction. “It’s not like we were going to get up that wall without her.” He adds as Enjolras throws a pencil at him. “Ow!”

“Look on the bright side guys. This time tomorrow we’ll find out if our ‘threat’ worked and the Pope of ignorance will be running scared.” Grantaire says lightly in an attempt to diffuse the tension in the air. “It could have been worse and you know it Enjolras.” He adds quietly as he leans against the desk Enjolras is sat at. “No-one was injured so count it as a win.”

Perhaps, back when they had been mortal, Enjolras would have argued with Grantaire, citing the artists drinking habits as reason for his dismissal of his suggestions. However, with immortality, and a new outlook on life, Enjolras rarely argued with Grantaire when he recognised the artist was right. It must have been quite a change for the golden-haired man to accept.

The tension in the room dissipates and in its place simple camaraderie develops for the remainder of the evening before I decide that we have been awake for quite long enough. Even immortals require rest afterall.

“I would suggest you retire promptly as we are mostly likely to receive news of the Pope’s choice tomorrow morning.” I say decisively as I rise from my own armchair – the same one I had in Paris when I brought them into my world – and place the tea cup on the coffee-table in the centre of the study.

I know they have heeded my words when, mere moments after I leave the study, I hear the sounds of their shuffling feet. I am most certainly like a mother who defines their curfews to them. It is with a smile gracing my lips that I retire to my room and ready myself for sleep, it does not take long to free myself of this rather dull dress – the most recent fashion craze where women are not expected to breathe, it is most inconvenient for mortals I am sure.

As I drift off into Morpheus’ embrace, I again sense something that I cannot define, though I know it to be dangerous. However, Morpheus is not a considerate being and before I can discover what has alarmed me, I am trapped in his arms as sleep takes me and dreams manifest.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

I wake to the sound of shouting full of desperation and fear and it is enough to drive me from my bed faster than anything before. I don my nightgown and slippers quickly before exiting my room and hurrying to the source of the shouting. My heart, though it does not beat, is in my throat and I feel dread build up within me. I can sense that something has been here, something old – perhaps as old as I – and that is has not been peaceful or good in its intentions.

Enjolras is clinging desperately to the doorframe of Grantaire’s room whilst Combeferre attempts to console him and I realise that the sense of dread is borne of Enjolras. I cannot push it aside however as I enter Grantaire’s room and survey the disarray of the room. There is blood splashed on the walls in a bastardised form of paint on a canvas, the windows are open, creaking in the breeze and the bedding is torn.

On the wall above Grantaire’s Spartan bed there is a message, wrote with blood, that sends shivers through me and forces a gasp from my constricted throat.

“ _No_.” I whisper in horror as I finally comprehend what the sensation I had felt earlier means. “Anything but this.” My legs collapse beneath me and I am dimly aware of one of the boys, possibly Jehan judging by the gentle words in my ear, holding me close.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

“He has been taken by one I thought dead.” I quietly whisper into the empty silence of the study. The fire is not lit and I do not have the inclination to light it – even with my gifts. “I had thought he died over four hundred years ago but evidently I was wrong.”

“Who is he? Why has he took Grantaire?” Enjolras hisses as he approaches me, his gaze alight with fear, anger, and something that he himself does not dare acknowledge. “ _Why_!” He exclaims as he grips me tightly and pulls me to him.

“Because Grantaire is a rarity in this world.” I reply quietly, my voice never louder than a whisper. Enjolras releases me suddenly and reels away.

“Grantaire is not at all unlike a person I knew once, someone I had intended to turn for I loved him quite fiercely.” I continue quietly, my voice broken and raw. I watched dispassionately as Enjolras collapses into one of the armchairs and holds his head in his hands. “He was so good and kind, gentle and considerate but stubborn and creative. He would never let me dictate to him lest I could justify my decisions. I loved him more than I have loved any other and on the eve I decided to turn him… _he_ came.”

“I did not understand my own powers as I do now and so was unaware of his presence until it was far too late. He took him from me and forced me to watch him burn. I was forced to see him die, to hear his screams as the fire stripped him away to nothing more than ash and bone.” I sob, tears now rolling freely down my cheeks as I stand in the centre of the study, directly facing Enjolras who has raised his head to look at me.

“I was blinded by a grief so strong that I could not stop myself and I tossed him upon the flames and forced him to burn. I was badly burnt as a result and fell away – too soon apparently as he still lives.” I kneel down before Enjolras and take his hands in my own. “He will not kill him Enjolras. He wishes to make me suffer and so he will not kill our Grantaire until I am there.”

I reach out a shaking hand and wipe the tear rolling down Enjolras’ cheek. “Do not weep for him Enjolras. He will live because I will not allow him to die for my ignorance. I will burn myself rather than let that happen.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

I stood in silent contemplation on the flat-roof of our home, observing the twinkling reflections of the stars in the river just to the west of the house. I had to make a decision, one that may well result in utter desolation of myself and Enjolras. Had it been only my soul I had to consider I would have decided that I could easily weather death again but it wasn’t just myself who would suffer.

I swore I would save Grantaire, that I would not allow him to perish as my love had and I mean it. Oh by the sake of Artemis and honour of Apollo do I mean it. I will not let Enjolras know the pain I myself have experienced and, so, I am faced with a problematic decision. If I choose wrongly I may cause more harm than good but… if I choose correctly I may be able to save us all. If I fail, Grantaire is lost. If I succeed, I may be.

I will not fail.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

“How are we going to save him? I mean what can we do?” Joly frets as he paces the study, his words jumbled and full of worry. He is young, younger than many of the others, and is quick to worry. I do not hold it against him and I do not reproach him for his verbalising of our fears. “What if Grantaire’s dead already? What if he’s dying and we can’t save him? What if we die trying? What if-”

“Joly, _enough_.” Combeferre snaps, his words coloured with his own fear and concern for their artist. _Our_ _artist_. “Worrying about the ‘what ifs’ isn’t helping.” He adds as he fixes his gaze upon the worried man, boy really but that’s semantics. His gaze is soft and reassuring in a way few could ever hope to reproduce; myself included.

“We must focus on the here and now Joly.” I say softly as I lift a silver-tipped arrow from the desk Enjolras often claims with his papers and plans of revolution. “If we allow our minds to wander and become misted by potential outcomes we will find ourselves crippled and helpless.” My gaze flits from the tip of the arrow I was inspecting to lock with Joly’s so that he could see the determination in my teal eyes. “I know that better than most my dear. Do not become a cripple; you are worth far more than that.”

Combeferre lifts the heavy crossbow from the desk, his face revealing for a moment the immense weight of it – I myself have struggled to carry the contraption in the past. I silently place the arrow in the arrow pouch that I had coveted for so long – a gift from my brother before he left to battle the barbarians and died far from home – and lift the crossbow from Combeferre’s arms, ignoring his raised brows, and replace it on the desk.

“It is far too cumbersome for what must be done Combeferre.” I explain as I reach over the crossbow and grasp a thin, finely crafted composite bow. “A finely made bow is far more effective for our kind than they are for mortals.” I reach out and gently place it within Combeferre’s grasp. “Remember that.”


End file.
